


A Serious Lack of Cupcakes

by RobinLorin



Series: Boyfriend From Gascony [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 14:07:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1651364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cupcakes were a happy accident. Years later, they’d become a symbol: of love, of affection, of sleepy Saturdays and simple gestures. </p><p>But at first, they were a bit of a mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Serious Lack of Cupcakes

The cupcakes were a happy accident. Years later, they’d become a symbol: of love, of affection, of sleepy Saturdays and simple gestures.

But at first, they were a bit of a mistake. 

* * * * * 

Athos and d’Artagnan had been dating, officially, for about two months before Valentine’s Day came around.

They had exchanged letters and texts and video chats and finally, declarations of intent over Skype. They had agreed to be exclusive. They even used the word "boyfriend," because d'Artagnan said he would really feel like a kept boy if Athos called him "lover." And now d’Artagnan was coming to visit in two weeks.

Athos still hadn’t told his friends. It was the novelty of the relationship, the nerves: what if it didn’t work out? What if they told him he was mad for getting involved with a twenty-two year-old?

But it was also the idea of having d’Artagnan to himself for now; enjoying his warm laughter and quick wit and steadfast heart, all just for him, for Athos. Having this time alone with someone he… cared for, that was good.

He made his preemptive excuses for missing Friday’s standing bowling date. He cleaned his apartment top to bottom. He stocked up on food. He made sure he had lube and condoms, then wondered if that was presumptuous, and hid them in a basket in his bedroom, the one Constance had bought him from a flea market.

It didn’t occur to Athos until the Wednesday before d’Artagnan’s visit that he had missed one crucial detail.

That Saturday was Valentine’s Day.

Shit. How had he missed this? Planning his first stay-over weekend with his… boyfriend… whatever… and he hadn’t realized it was for Valentine’s Day.  

Was d’Artagnan expecting something? A gift? A gesture?

Most of Athos’ previous relationships had never gotten as far as Valentine’s day. The one that had, well… Milady had never hesitated to tell him exactly what she wanted, up to and including what Athos should wear, who should help him plan, and what kind of mood lighting she would look best in.

Milady’s minutely planned events had ranged from her expectations of Athos’ “surprise” marriage proposal, to her genuinely more surprising demand that he help her cover up a murder.

Athos pushed those thoughts of his mind. Milady had no place in his relationship with d’Artagnan. For one, d’Artagnan was more genuine, less performative. He hadn’t said anything about the date, so perhaps he wasn’t aware.

But anyone with half a brain noticed Valentine’s Day. And lovers... boyfriends... expected signs of adoration. But would it be too soon to give him a present? What kind of present?

Athos scrubbed a hand through his hair. This would take some reconnaissance.

* * * * *

Stage One gave him nothing. Advertisements gave him conflicting messages: Give chocolates! Give twenty-carat diamond rings! Give a grill! Give pottery! Give shitty factory-made teddy bears!

Athos dumped the newspaper ads in the trash.

On to Stage Two.

* * * * * 

To: Aramis

Are you available on Saturday?

 

From: Aramis

Nah, got a hot date. You need backup? Porthos is free, don’t let him say otherwise

 

To Aramis

Right. Valentine’s Day.

 

From: Aramis

You shld try getting a date. Plenty of lonely ppl looking for company on VDay!

 

To: Aramis

No thank you. I wouldn’t know how to treat a date on Valentine’s Day.

 

From: Aramis

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ABrSYqiqvzc>

 

Athos closed his phone. No help on that end. This called for Stage Three.

* * * * *

“Doing anything special this weekend?” he asked Constance.

“What, me?” said Constance. “I’ll be at home drinking tea and reading the latest progress report. Why?”

“Oh, Valentine’s Day, you know," said Athos, super casually. “Thought you might have something planned.”

Constance gave him a look. “I haven’t been seeing anyone since Bonnie, you know that. Unless you’re talking about my Saturday evening date with my vibrat--”

“Nice talking to you, got to get home, bye,” said Athos loudly.

* * * * * 

Reconnaissance hadn’t helped at all. D’Artagnan wasn’t the nameless consumer to whom all the ads seemed directed, and neither was he a fling who could be distracted with crass gestures. He was sweet and genuine, he was funny and headstrong, and he made Athos’ heart do backflips. He deserved something nice. No, better than nice. He deserved treasures.

Friday arrived with Athos no closer to any idea. Everywhere he went, the Valentine’s mood mocked him.

Balloon-festooned advertisements and teddy bears and boxes of chocolates haunted Athos. Every shop window was filled with some kind of Valentine’s display. The supermarket had a sale on long-stemmed roses.

Athos was going mad.

“So, this weekend,” he said to d’Artagnan. He was looking at the computer screen, which was filled up with d'Artagnan's knees. The loveliest knees in existence. God, he had it bad.

“Sorry, what?” D’Artagnan popped back down into view. “I can’t get this sweater in my suitcase.”

“That suitcase has never seen anything as horrible as your sweaters,” Athos said fondly. “It’s rejecting them out of fear.”

“My sister made this sweater,” said d’Artagnan. “Real cat hair.”

“There you go.”

D’Artagnan brushed his hair out of eyes. “What were you saying about this weekend?”

Athos felt the nerves return. This was ridiculous; feeling like a teenager asking his crush on a date. It’s communication, he reminded himself. His inner voice sounded too much like his therapist. Communication is vital to healthy relationship.

“Uh, this weekend,” he stalled. “Would… are you…” _...expecting a totally over-the-top declaration of love with a flash mob serenading us into a covered carriage that escorts us to a five-star restaurant?_

“Are you… bringing that book you were talking about?”

Dammit, he really had to get Milady out of his head.

* * * * * 

Athos paced around the countertop island in his kitchen. He scrubbed a hand over his face. He paced some more, and then a little more just to round out his pacing for the day. He dialed the phone.

“Le Meurice. How may I may help you?”

Athos cleared his throat. “Yes. Hello. I would like to book a table for this Saturday.”

“I am sorry, but we are booked all day.”

“Sunday?”

“I’m afraid we are booked through the weekend.”

Shit.

“Are you sure I can’t persuade you otherwise?” Athos put all the self-assured, silver-spooned bastard into his voice that he could remember from his pre-divorce days. He must have been rusty, because the voice on the line only said coldly, “I’m afraid not, sir.”

“Fine,” sighed Athos, and hung up.

Fuck.

* * * * * 

Athos woke on Saturday morning to an arm across his chest and a bright beam of sunlight in his eyes. He blinked himself awake and glanced at the clock. Almost noon. Fuck.

He had meant to get up earlier and secure a table at another restaurant. Any would do, at this point. All the elaborate dates that he had concocted in his imagination had boiled down into the dread realization that a simple dinner would have to suffice for Valentine’s Day night.

But even that plan had been dashed by d’Artagnan’s arrival Friday night. d’Artganan had barreled into Athos’ arms at the train station, dropping his horribly ratty suitcase and getting loose cat hair from his sweater all over Athos’ coat. Athos had hugged him tightly in return, feeling, as he did every time d’Artagnan was in his arms, that everything was right. All his worries had disappeared, completely gone in two seconds.

And now he was paying for that feeling, in the bright light of day. Athos felt the now-familiar knot of worry tighten in his gut.

He slipped out of bed, tucking a strand of d’Artagnan’s hair behind his ears. d’Artagnan murmured but didn’t stir.

Athos made his way out of the bedroom, nudging aside with his foot what d’Artagnan had dubbed, amid a fit of laughter, “the condom basket.” He snatched his scattered clothes off the floor and made his way to the kitchen.

He picked up the phone at stared at it, contemplating his options. To call and face the disdain of numerous maitre d’s, or to not try at all and face the inevitable disappointment in d’Artagnan’s eyes? Finally he sighed and put the phone down. There was no point in trying any of the local restaurants. At this point he’d have to drag d’Artagnan to a restaurant outside of Paris for dinner, and then d’Artagnan would probably be cross and annoyed.

He shrugged into his clothes and snagged his keys from the counter. He scribbled a note to d’Artagnan and left the apartment for the bakery on the corner.

“Two black coffees, please,” he said to the barista. His eyes fell on the counter display. As with all bakeries this week, there were explosions of edible glitter covering cookies and red frosted hearts on brownies. Half of the case was empty, no doubt depleted by earlier, smarter risers. Of all the rows of cupcakes, only two were left: one of red velvet and one topped with fondant painted with garish depictions of red-faced cherubs.

“And one cupcake, please,” he added. “With the cherubs.”

D’Artagnan hadn’t woken by the time Athos returned. He made a beeline for the bedroom, smiling at the sight of d’Artagnan nestled under the blankets. He was sprawled across the bed like he’d slept there a hundred times before; like he could a thousand times again.

Athos knelt on the bed. “Wake up, bedhead,” he murmured. He reached over d’Artagnan to set the coffee cups and the box holding the cupcake on the bedside table.

A hand shot out of the blankets and grabbed Athos’ wrist.

“What the --”

“Cupcake,” said d’Artagnan. He peered at Athos through his tangled hair.

“Ye-es,” said Athos. “I brought you a cupcake.”

d’Artagnan’s eyes roved over Athos and found the white bakery box in his hand. “Mine.”

Athos obligingly handed over the box. d’Artagnan’s face upon opening the box was a thing of beauty.

“My god,” d’Artagnan choked. Athos thought he wiped a tear from his eye. “It’s perfect.”

“Really?” said Athos, meaning for it to be light. It came out heavy and nervous and god, that knot in his belly was big enough to hang someone with. He cleared his throat. “Constipated cherubs do it for you?”

D’Artagnan set down the box carefully. He reached out and cradled Athos’ face in his hands. “You brought me a cupcake,” he said solemnly. “The night after the best sex of my life, in your apartment in Paris, on Valentine’s Day.”

So he _had_ realized. Athos shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry if you wanted more,” he began.

“More than what?” said d’Artagnan. “More than the best boyfriend in the world?” He drew Athos to him and kissed him deeply. “You’re all I want,” he said into Athos’ mouth. “Well, you and this cupcake.”

“How did you even know I had one?” Athos asked.

“I have a superior cupcake sensing system,” said d’Artagnan, already busy with the paper. “I can detect any cupcakes in a twenty-foot radius.”

My god, thought Athos, I’ve fallen in love with a madman.

But as he kissed d’Artagnan again, he figured it was good company.

* * * * * 

So the cupcakes were a fluke at first. A lucky fluke, according to Athos.

The next time was hedging on a bet that d’Artagnan’s reaction to cupcakes would be similarly enthusiastic a second time. Indeed, Athos’ welcome-to-Paris present inspired _many_ enthusiastic feelings from d’Artagnan well into the night.

The third time was when Athos knew he had a good thing going. A perfect boyfriend who doesn’t ask for anything more than a cupcake on special days; who could ask for more?

“Happy birthday, d’Artagnan!” Constance beamed and held her arms out for a hug. D’Artagnan complied, grinning back.

“This makes you, what, sixteen?” said Aramis. He was lounging against the party table and smirking, although he did get up to clasp d’Artagnan on the shoulder.

Porthos smacked him lightly. “Don’t be rude,” he said. “Our boy is at least seventeen by now. Right, Athos?” He smirked at Athos, who restrained from rolling his eyes.

“Very funny, guys,” said d’Artagnan.

“Ignore them, sweetie,” said Constance. “We all know you’re turning eighteen this year.”

“Constance!” said d’Artagnan while Porthos cackled. “I thought you were on my side.”

Constance patted him on the head. “Just tell us if that old man tries to touch you,” she said. “Now, we have champagne, fruit salad made by yours truly, and Aramis and Porthos’ joint contribution, which is five cartons of Chinese takeout. And we all got you presents!” She indicated a jumble of hastily wrapped gifts. 

D’Artagnan was beaming. “You did all this for me?” He looked like he wanted to scoop Constance up in another hug. Those two bounced enthusiasm off each other like juggernauts.

“Well, it’s your first birthday with us! I had to do something.” She frowned at him and added, “You wouldn’t let me get cake, though. I made do with pie. Not birthday-like at all.”

“That’s alright,” said d’Artagnan, smiling wickedly at Athos. “I expect I’ll get some cake later.” Athos smirked back and thought of the cream-filled chocolate pistachio cupcake he had in the fridge, and the chocolate-flavored lube he had in the condom basket.

“ _Ew_ ,” said Aramis.

So it went. The cupcake Athos found for d’Artagnan’s move to Paris and acceptance into the police force had a pair of silver handcuffs made of fondant. d’Artagnan raised his eyebrows in silent question, and Athos nodded in confirmation. The extra he paid for that design was well spent, in his opinion.

The one for d’Artagnan’s first solved case had a bright blue “You’re #1!” written on top. It also had a football on it, but that was irrelevant.

When Athos got a call from Milady, eight months into his and d’Artagnan’s relationship, and had a bad day where he snapped at everyone and dragged his feet passing the liquor store on his way home, d’Artagnan came to Athos’ apartment with an eclair.

“It’s not a cupcake,” d’Artagnan said sheepishly when Athos stared, “but I thought you’d like this better.”

Athos wasn’t up to smiling, not quite, but he made sure d’Artagnan knew how much Athos appreciated it.

And when d’Artagnan didn’t have to come over to Athos’ apartment anymore, when they found a new apartment for the both of them, the first thing Athos put in the kitchen was a cupcake topped with a 3-D house, complete with smoke coming from the chimney.

That was around the time that Athos suggested d’Artagnan join the Musketeers Agency. A little after that, Aramis extended the invitation formally, and a little after that, d’Artagnan found a cupcake decorated with a gummie tie on his new desk.

When d’Artagnan broke his arm tackling a suspect to the ground of a filthy alleyway, Athos served him two cupcakes as breakfast in bed: one cop and one robber. The arm of the cop that wasn’t raising a bully stick had a bright pink cast added to it. It clashed terribly with his blue uniform. D’Artagnan laughed and leaned against Athos, who stroked his hair and laughed too.

The “cupcake gag,” Porthos called it. “Very sweet,” Constance called it. Either way, it was a set thing. It was their thing. Sweets for the sweet, and all that.

So it didn’t make sense that Athos was freaking out about it when it came to proposing.

He’d had the idea for a while. Not just the cupcakes, but the proposing part.

Constance had sent him a [text](http://hippity-hoppity-brigade.tumblr.com/post/85850084423/expanding-on-the-perfect-boyfriend-thing-before), soon after d’Artagnan moved to Paris: _“He really is perfect. You’d better keep him if you don’t want me to snatch him up.”_

It hadn’t worried him, exactly; the idea of Constance stealing anyone’s partner was laughable. And d’Artagnan had convinced Athos over and again that he was staying with Athos, for better or worse.

But there was together, and there was marriage. Athos was getting older, wasn’t he, and there were all sorts of perks to marriage. Taxes and legal rights and all that. Matching rings on their fingers. A wedding. Growing old together. It would also solve all of this "boyfriend" terminology nonsense. 

In Athos’ life, marriage hadn’t been much of what it was promised to be. A lot more murder, for one. A lot more heartbreak.

D’Artagnan would be different in this part of Athos’ life. He usually was.

So. Marriage. Athos had his mind set on it. The cupcakes were a definite as well.

Or they would be, if Athos could stop burning them.

He dumped the third batch of burned cupcakes into the trash. Soon the can would be overflowing and he’d have to hide it in a dumpster because trash pickup wasn’t for an hour and if d’Artagnan smelled it outside the front stoop he’d know that Athos had been baking and then the whole thing would be ruined --

Athos forced himself to take a deep breath and lean against the counter.

The kitchen wasn’t his domain; usually d’Artagnan cooked. And baked. Mostly Athos reheated things. Maybe Athos shouldn’t have started off his baking career with an attempt to make six different cupcake recipes at once. His saving grace was that at least he hadn’t put the ring in any of them yet -- the plan was to insert it into the bottom of one after they cooled.

Athos kicked the counter and scowled. He knew d’Artagnan would love having his pick of cupcakes with the promise that a “prize” was inside one. And he wanted it to be special. From Athos personally. Homemade said personal. Burned cake? Not so much.

He glanced at the clock. Thirty minutes before d’Artagnan came home. Aramis had promised to stall him, but he’d texted an hour ago saying it was a slow day. D’Artagnan would likely be early.

Fuck it. There was no time to try another batch.

Athos opened the windows to clear the room, and then grabbed the trash and hauled it to the dumpster two streets down. He kept going, over the bridge and down a side street, to d’Artagnan’s favorite bakery. He kept one hand in his pocket, flipping the ring over and over.

Dusk was falling by the time he made it back to the apartment. The lights were off, but there were noises coming from the kitchen; d’Artagnan unpacking groceries.

“Is that you?” d’Artagnan called. “I picked up some veal for tonight. What do you say?”

Athos moved into the kitchen, heart pounding. The evening sun lit d’Artagnan’s hair where he stood by the window, shining like a beacon in the soft evening gloom. He was wearing his rumpled uniform and he smelled faintly like baby powder and god, he was everything Athos wanted to grow old with.

“Sounds like the perfect first course,” Athos said.

“First course? Are you planning on cooking the second one, because I’m not -- oh!” D’Artagnan saw the white bakery box in Athos’ hand. “Is that the second course? What’s the special occasion?” He smiled cheekily. Athos felt a thrill of consuming love jolt him, and it was all he could do to hold out the box.

D’Artagnan took it and turned toward the window, tilting the box to the light as he opened it. Athos heard the soft thump of the ring sliding across the bottom of the otherwise empty box.

He wished he’d had time to put a velvet bottom in. Or a platform or something. Something less plain.

D’Artagnan was silent. Athos opened his mouth to say something, anything, but --  

“This isn’t a cupcake,” said d’Artagnan.

“No,” said Athos. His mouth was dry.

“Where’s my cupcake?”

“There is no cupcake. It’s a ring.”

“I know it’s a ring,” said d’Artagnan, finally turning toward Athos, and it was no wonder he hadn’t looked at Athos before, because it was all given away in his eyes and the quirk of his mouth and the absolute, undeniable joy in his face, “but I was expecting a cupcake, Athos, and there is a serious lack of cupcakes.”

“For god’s sake,” Athos ground out, “I’ll buy you all the bakeries this side of the Siene if you’ll marry me.”

D’Artgnan crossed the kitchen and, still holding the box in one hand, cupped Athos’ cheek in his palm and said, “Of course I’ll marry you, you perfect, thoughtful man. You're all I want.”

He drew Athos into a kiss, and Athos kissed back with all the love he could convey, all the fire burning for d’Artagnan in his soul.  

After a long moment, d’Artagnan broke off the kiss. “But you do actually have a cupcake for me, right?”

Athos laughed and kissed d’Artagnan again. “It’s in the front hall.”

**Author's Note:**

> trautkeinenartigenkindern urged me to write about my Boyfriend From Gascony headcanons, and then thefrottagecottage asked me how Athos proposes to d'Artagnan, and then this beautiful monstrosity was born in the wee haunting hours. 
> 
> I can't say anything but thank you to all my enablers. Thank you so much for helping me obsess over this show and these two goofs.


End file.
